


blood in the wood

by afearsomecritter (jsaer)



Category: Critical Role (Web Series), UnDeadwood (Web Series)
Genre: Gen, Gore, Horror, UnDeadwood Mini-series (Critical Role), implied Reverend Matthew Mason/Clayton Sharpe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-27 02:54:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21384904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jsaer/pseuds/afearsomecritter
Summary: The half rebuilt church in Deadwood seems like an easy target for thieves. It isn't.
Comments: 17
Kudos: 116





	blood in the wood

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea what this is and it refused to be shoved into any other stories so have fun I guess?

\-------

there’s a sinner in the church.

this isn’t news, sinners were in the church every day in a town like this. in every town. 

(this new sinner was stupid though)

the reverend here lived in the church you see, charcoal perpetually smudged on a dark coat and a white collar like lipstick stains

(keep your sins at home)

this new sinner saw a skeletal house of the lord with new ribs and figured the money came from somewhere.

\--

clayton didn’t know the man’s name, didn’t care to. 

he did care that it was ass’o clock in the morning, moonlight still dripping through the roofbeams, there’s an idiot bleeding out on the floor, and the reverend sitting in a pew, watching the idiot bleed.

click. click. click. went the wooden beads of the rosary, inexorable as the ticking of a clock. 

he was calm, lines around his eyes and mouth relaxed in a way clayton wasn't sure he'd ever seen. his gaze was steady, locked on the shivering reprobate on the ground. 

there was no malice in the stare, only a quiet sort of kindness you could bend steel around.

the reverend's hands were bare, scars silver in the low light and fingers with calluses that rasped faintly against the beads. 

“there are better places to steal from,” the reverend says, voice low, a creaking rumble (like the settling foundations of the church). clayton settles against the entry to their rooms upstairs, content to watch. 

“fuck you,” replies the man on the floor, blood bubbling past pale lips, “you’re supposed to be a preacher, you ain’t supposed to have teeth.”

the reverend hums.

click. click. click. go the rosary beads, carefully kept clear of bloody knuckles. 

“how would you like to be buried?”

timbers creak in the silence.

“what?”

the clicking stops. a hand gestures gently to the blood pooling on the floor. wooden beads swing like droplets on a wire.

“the good doctor won’t be of much use now. so, how would you like to be buried?”

“you can’t-you can’t do this!” the words are thick, gasped through a mouth full of blood. 

“you broke into my-into the lord’s house with intent to, at the very least, rob it and likely kill me and my partner, what on earth did you think might happen?”

“what kind of priest-”

the reverend moves, crouching by the near dead man. a hand hovers over wide eyes.

“You seemed so concerned with my dentition, but the funny thing is that the worms that shall eat you have no teeth." 

\--

(there’s a sinner in the dirt in the graveyard. this isn’t news, there’s a lot of those)

\------


End file.
